Tallulah
by Arthiel Melil
Summary: Oneshot, OC. The story of how, one night, beautiful socialite Tallulah Brightley lost the heart she hadn't known she had.


Original Writing Coursework – The Great Gatsby

It occurred to me as I ordered my coffee that the adjective most appropriate for the girl sitting opposite me was in fact, her name. While not strictly an adjective, 'she is so very Tallulah' seemed to outline her character far better than any of the more elaborate ones I had tried; she simply defied description of any sort. I was sitting in a busy café on Main Street, across the table from Tallulah Brightley, the beautiful socialite I unaccountably struck up a warm friendship with for that glittering summer spent mostly at the decadent parties Gatsby held in his palatial home. She was the same as ever she was: flighty as a feather, incandescent as a moonbeam, capricious as a child.

What we talked of to begin with I really cannot remember, except that it was terribly shocking but completely vacuous; I have a vague idea that it was comprised of various scandals and snippets of gossip, along with opinionated remarks designed to astonish me, and anyone else in the immediate vicinity, none of whom could possibly be indifferent to her animated conversation. Her chatter was like a fast flowing brook – constant and pleasant, but slipping through your mind like water through your hands, impossible to keep hold of no matter how hard you tried. I got the sense that in this way too Tallulah slipped through people's lives; loved by many but owned by none, she moved from place to place, person to person as a dancer traverses the stage – light, free, and not once looking back. And as for her italics – you could hear them! However, I do remember one aspect of our conversation, because I saw a side to her character that I had never really guessed at – a glimpse of a heart behind her glamorous, two-dimensional facade. It struck me as strange that whilst 'have a heart Tallulah!' was a phrase I so often used to her, I was not sure if I was happy about the sudden appearance of one; it was unnerving, to say the least. She put down her cup, and fixed me with a look that I could not quite understand.

"You'll never guess what darling - I saw Fred again yesterday! I am quite _positive_ it was him, because when he saw me, he turned a frankly _alarming_ shade of purple, and hurried on down the street. He was a little older and fatter, but then I suppose I am too for that matter".

She paused here, to give me a chance to dispute this, which, knowing her well, I did instinctively and vehemently. Satisfied, she continued.

"To be frank, it gave me quite a turn. Fred was the only man I have really ever felt _anything_ for."

She must have caught my disparaging glance, because her next words were addressed to me in her pleading voice, a voice of honey and vanilla that made you feel that you were her only concern, her one hope, her sole care. I had never known anyone refuse that voice, except of course for the aforementioned and disastrous Fred.

"Oh, _don't_ look at me like that darling! John was an absolute _sweetheart_ and Tom was really a _dear_, and Joe was just so _deliciously_ sweet, but it just was not the same thing I had with Fred."

"And Martin?" I asked, not wholly appeased. "You do remember Martin?"

"Of course!" she cried "and he did have the most beautiful smile, but don't you remember darling, he had quite a persistent habit of making ridiculous innuendo at the most inappropriate moments? Absolutely _mortifying_!"

I laughed, and acknowledged her to be right about his habit, although I could not recall her ever being truly mortified by anything, despite her frequent exclamations to the contrary. We sat in companionable silence for a minute or two, and I watched a contemplative expression cross the usually so lively firefly visage of my friend with mounting astonishment; I had rarely seen any expression adorn her exquisite features except her usual blend of gentle condescension, slight amusement and mild boredom; certainly never an expression so serious as the one she had now adopted.

After a brief interval, she bit her lip, and fixed me with an intense gaze. Presently, she spoke, in a voice that did not seem to belong to her at all, for she spoke slowly, with a slight tremor and no sense of her usual confidence, amusement, or self-awareness that made her trivial conversation so curiously attractive.

"I think I will tell you about the first time I met him. Met Fred."

I leant forward in my chair, eager to hear about something that actually seemed to matter to her. She suddenly seemed to make an elusive, mysterious figure, lounging elegantly upright in her chair at the coffee table, eyes half closed, her right hand loosely holding her still smoking cigarette. I got the strong impression that she was not in the bustling café at all, but in a more glamorous place by far, in the height of that golden summer, surrounded by people who had now dissipated, never to be seen again once that Gatsby's magnificent parties were just a memory of opulence and splendour. Yet somehow, despite the emotion to which I was unaccustomed, and the loss of her usual glib tone, she was still quintessentially Tallulah – her spirit was as irrepressible as ivy, and I was well aware that her influence on those around her could be as devastating. She just had to be dramatic – even when it was something that I sensed mattered, unlike her usual gossip.

"It was the 8th June, and I was absolutely ridiculously bored. Had not had any decent fun in ages – and I had nowhere to go, seeing as I had recently finished with Martin, as you so cleverly remembered.' She threw me a wicked grin, and a lady sitting two tables away turned round in shock and evident disapproval.

'It was all _terribly_ depressing, and I was sitting there being _terribly_ depressed, when out of the blue, one of those dreadful Ellsworth girls – I never can remember their names - showed up completely unannounced, and asked me if I'd like to go to Gatsby's with her. This was when he was quite new to the area, and I had not actually been to one of his parties yet. Besides, it was all so _dreadfully_ dull darling. Well, I shall never forget the first sight of that house, and I have been to a lot of houses! It rose up out of the starlit expanses of lawn like something out of a fairytale – made of moonlight and adorned with stars. And the gardens! Beautifully smooth lawns punctuated with the most picturesque gnarled old trees and clusters of rose bushes, and everything covered in streamers of honeysuckle and ivy. Well, we went inside, and I caught sight of _darling_ Alice, and pretty little Mary, sitting with that man who tells the most _hilarious_ anecdotes, so I excused myself from whichever Ellsworth girl it was, and went to join them. We had a _fabulous_ time! The champagne was running freely, and the gossip soon followed suit. We followed the traditional party rule – get roaring drunk and you will soon find it does not matter what you do, you will still have a _sublime_ night. Anyway, quite early on, some young man approached us, and asked where he could find Gatsby – as if _we_ knew! He seemed to have been invited: one of the five who were. That got everyone started on our illustrious host. You've heard all the rumours of course: he's a murderer, hiding from justice; he's a German spy, who made all his money betraying people; he's a heartbroken hero, concealing his true identity to protect his love; he escaped from a high security prison after robbing a bank; all the usual stories, but somehow much more plausible and interesting the first time you hear them – I was quite _enthralled_. Personally, I favour the theory that he is a rich bootlegger' she said, her usual candidness returning to her, 'the least romantic perhaps, but the most credible by far. Anyway, we were discussing our _enigmatic_ host when a young man joined our conversation, proposing some theory to do with Oxford that he had heard somewhere or other. He was perhaps not the most _handsome_ man I had ever met, but quite the most interesting. He was amusing, kind and daring – quite perfect really."

The tenderness I could just hear in her voice forbore me to comment, though it was quite an effort. Perfect was certainly not the adjective I would use to describe him – ironic that the charmingly, exasperatingly insincere Tallulah seemed to have fallen for the one man who did not wish to inspire a deeper emotion in her.

"We went out into the gardens. The stars shone bright as morning dewdrops, and the indigo night was a light darkness as the temperature was a cool heat. We sat on a fallen tree all covered with creepers of that wonderful honeysuckle, and talked as the sun came up, flooding the garden with poppy-red light." She gave a half-laugh, slightly tremulous.

"Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning. But it was so beautiful. How can anything that right be so wrong?' Her painted lips curved into a half smile, half childish bemused frown and I knew that a part of her would always be sitting on that fallen tree, surrounded by honeysuckle, bathed in light, and encircled by her dream of what love should be; I saw the romantic child that hid behind her cynicism. She bit her trembling lip, and then, abruptly, her eyes snapped back to the present, her face engaging and alive.

"_Darling_, you won't believe what Sonya Westbeach did on Tuesday! How completely _preposterous_ that girl is..."

Off she went again, shrugging off her wayward emotions, consumed by some new scandal - poor Sonya had not heard the last of whatever she had done. I smiled as I watched her, stirring my coffee, and thought to myself: how completely Tallulah. I was to hear, a week later, that she was walking out (and by all accounts walking home) with Steven Ellsworth, the brother of 'those dreadful Ellsworth girls'. When I saw them together, I was to understand for the first time why, when she was with him, in some lights and at some times, her eyes seemed to belie her trademark smile: for they were so very distant and almost wistful, as if they were somewhere else, looking upon another, well-remembered face.


End file.
